Peter Decker 3-Book Thriller Collection: False Prophet, Grievous Sin, Sanctuary. Faye Kellerman

strength. Eerie because Lilah looked so beaten and weak. Maybe it was adrenaline reserve. He whispered, “You’re safe now, Lilah. No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe.”

      “Lilah, we’re getting ready to move you,” Teresa said. “I’m just bracing your neck. You’re going to be okay.” She turned to Decker. “As long as you’re here, slip your hand under her back and help us load her.”

      Decker nodded.

      “Count of three,” Eddie said. “One … two … three, go!”

      Like well-oiled machinery, the three of them loaded Lilah onto the gurney, her hand still gripping Decker’s. But at least now he was able to stand, roll his shoulders to loosen his back. Again he tried to take his hand away, but Lilah wouldn’t ease up.

      Teresa craned her neck to look up at Decker. “From the grip she has on you, at least we know there’s no spinal break … from the waist up, that is.”

      Eddie said. “Lilah, can you wiggle your toes?”

      There was a slight response.

      “Good, Lilah,” Decker said. “That was good. Can you understand me? Squeeze my hand if you can.”

      A light squeeze.

      “That’s great, Lilah! The paramedics are going to take you to the hospital now. You’re in excellent hands. The doctors are going to help you, run a few tests to make sure you’re okay. I want them to examine you very carefully for me. Is that all right? Do you understand me?”

      Another squeeze.

      Decker turned to the paramedics and said, “Where are you taking her?”

      “Sun Valley Memorial,” Teresa said. “That okay?”

      “Yeah, that’s fine. Ask for Dr. Kessler or Dr. Begin and tell them it’s for Detective Sergeant Peter Decker. They’ve both done pelvics in these types of situations and are familiar with what I need for evidence collection. The usual—all the fluids, a good pelvic- and head-hair combing, nails cleaned, the debris slided for the lab—fingernails and toenails.” He stroked the hand that was clutching his. “Lilah, at the hospital, is it okay if someone takes pictures of your injuries? If I have pictures of your injuries, it will help me catch and convict the monster who did this to you. Do you understand me?”

      She let out a muffled sound.

      “Lilah, squeeze my hand if it’s okay?”

      Another squeeze.

      “Good, Lilah.” He faced the paramedics. “Tell the docs that I’ll be sending down a police photographer. I’ll also need her clothes and any other personal effects bagged. Please ask them to use gloves. I’ll pick her stuff up myself and send it to the lab.”

      “You got it,” Teresa said.

      Decker regarded the manicured hand, long slender fingers laced around his. “Lilah, this is Sergeant Decker again. I’m going to ask you a question. Squeeze my hand if the answer is yes. Do you know who attacked you?”

      No reaction.

      “Okay, I’m going to ask you the same question. Squeeze if the answer is yes. Do you know who attacked you?”

      Nothing.

      “You don’t know who attacked you? Squeeze if you don’t know who attacked you.”

      Decker felt light pressure around his fingers. “Okay, that was great. I promise you, Lilah, you’re safe. You’re going to be all right. I have to let go now.”

      Her fingers tightened around his.

      “Lilah, I have to let them take you to the hospital and I can’t come with you.” He wrenched his hand out of hers and as he did, she let out a low moan. “I’ll be back, Lilah. I promise I’ll come back and talk to you.”

      She moaned again, water trickling down her face. As they carried her out, Decker saw her hand stretching outward, reaching out to him. And those moans. He felt as if he were abandoning her and hoped she wouldn’t hold anything against him when he came to question her … if she’d even remember him. Assault victims were sometimes afflicted with amnesia, especially if the ordeal was particularly vicious.

      Decker stretched his long spine, then ran his thick hand through carrot-colored hair. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed the maid at the entrance to the room. She was still trembling, her hand on the doorpost for support. He told her to sit down in the kitchen and pour herself a cup of tea. He’d be with her in a minute.

      From his coat pocket, he pulled out an evidence bag and slipped the blindfold inside. With a grease pencil, he roughly outlined Lilah’s position on the floor. Then he unhitched his hand-held radio and asked to be patched through to Detective Marge Dunn. While waiting for her to respond, he took out a pen and his rape checklist and began to make detailed notes.

      2

      Tucked inside the rear corner of the bedroom’s walk-in closet, the freestanding safe was open and empty. It was a waist-high, green-colored block, lined with three inches of high-grade solid steel, and contained an inner safe that was bare as well. As Benny the printman dusted the vault, Marge Dunn danced around shards of glass as she drew a layout of the bedroom and divided it into grids for evidence check.

      The place had been tossed; furniture had been knocked over. Old-looking pieces: the skinny, austere stuff without curves or embellishments. Could have been replicas, but were probably antiques. Lots of embroidered pillows and doodads, doilies in garish colors, were mixed in with the mess. Lilah had a four-poster bed, the rumpled spread made out of chenille. Like the spread Granny used to have, Marge thought, white and full of little pompons. She smiled, remembering how she picked at them until the knots fell apart.

      A couple of baby uniforms named Bellingham and Potter were hanging around, not really getting in the way but not doing anything productive either. There were already a few blues outside securing the scene so the young ’uns weren’t needed here. Marge called them over.

      Nice-looking babies—tall and trim with well-scrubbed faces, eyes that seemed eager to work. Their enthusiasm made Marge feel old. Depressing, since she’d just turned thirty.

      “Why don’t you two canvass the area?” she suggested. “See if anybody or anyone heard anything?”

      Bellingham rubbed a spit-polished shoe against the floor. “Sergeant Decker told us to wait here. The nearest neighbor is the spa and he didn’t want us questioning anyone without him. But if you want us to go, Detective, we’ll go.”

      Marge thought for a moment, fingering strands of blond hair. Pete was right. These kids weren’t savvy enough to handle the Vulcanites.

      “I noticed a stable out back,” Marge said. “Why don’t you check that out? See if anyone’s hanging around, if anything looks suspicious. Count how many horses the stable holds.”

      “Sure thing, Detective,” Potter said. “Should we report back to you or Sergeant Decker if we come up with anything?”

      “Either one,” Marge said. “And don’t spend too much time on it. Just look around, jot down some notes, and report back. Then get on with your patrols. You two together?”

      “Yes, ma’am … er, yes, Detective …” Bellingham blushed. “Sorry.”

      Marge smiled, slapped him on the back. “Get your butts out there.”

      After they left, she was glad to have some elbow room. The photographer had just finished, leaving Benny in the closet. The lab boys were checking the doors and windows in the front section of the house, and Pete and the maid were in the dining room.

      “Detective?” Benny called out.

      “Coming.” Marge squeezed her large frame inside the closet. Not an easy trick with Benny occupying most of the space. The man was